Read Online Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series) by Dorothy Howell - Free Book Online

logo. My heart began to beat faster.
    She ripped open the box and thrust a Coach wristlet at me. I took it, cradled it in my palms, giving it the tender, loving care it deserved. I caressed its supple leather, breathed in the rich aroma.
    There’s nothing like the smell of a new handbag.
    “Mom sent me this thing with a note telling me that I could have nice stuff like this all the time, if I came home and married boring-to-the-bone Kia guy,” she said, throwing the box into the floor. “It’s a Coach—”
    “—laser cut Op Art large wristlet from their Madison line, with perforated leather in an eyelet lace pattern, an inside open pocket, zip-top closure, fabric lining, available in silver and parchment, that retails for two hundred bucks,” I said.
    Jeez, maybe I should get a life.
    “I don’t
need a
two-hundred dollar wristlet,” Jasmine said. “What I
need
is grocery money.”
    “Why don’t you—”
    My throat went dry. I couldn’t say the words, yet I had to.
    I gulped hard and tried again.
    “Why don’t you … return it?” I asked.
    “She didn’t include the receipt. I took it to their store at the Northridge Mall—where I was treated like Julia Roberts on Rodeo Drive
before
Richard Gere shopped with her, by the way,” Jasmine said. “They would only give me store credit.”
    “I’ll buy it from you.”
    The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them—not that I wanted to.
    Jasmine just looked at me for a couple of minutes, like she was wondering if she’d heard me right, if I really meant it, what I did to earn that much money, or maybe who I was sleeping with who gave me that kind of cash.
    I saw no reason to get into it with her.
    I grabbed my purse and pulled out the two one-hundred dollar bills I kept hidden in my cosmetic bag. It was my don’t-get-embarrassed-at-checkout-if-my-credit-card-is-declined emergency fund.
    Yeah, okay, this was, technically, Jasmine’s emergency, not mine. But I felt really bad for her and I wanted to do something to help. Plus, the Coach wristlet was awesome.
    I held out the money.
    Jasmine didn’t jump at it. She just stared, then said, “Are you serious?”
    “I never kid about designer handbags,” I told her.
    “Oh, wow.” She collapsed onto the couch again and covered her face with her palms. She sniffed.
    Oh my God, was she crying?
    I’m not good with a crier.
    Jasmine sniffed again, dug her fists into her eyes, then looked up at me. Her eyes were red but—whew!—she wasn’t shedding tears.
    “It’s just that, well, nobody’s ever done something like this for me before,” she said softly.
    “It’s a great wristlet. I’m thrilled to have it,” I said.
    I put the money on the couch, then grabbed the box off of the floor and put the wristlet inside.
    “Thank you,” Jasmine said, gazing up at me. “Thanks so much.”
    I could tell she really meant it. But I’m not big on emotional scenes, so I headed for the door.
    “Let me know about your friend,” Jasmine said, following me.
    It took me a second to realize she was talking about my imaginary friend whom I’d said wanted to share the apartment.
    “Oh, yeah, sure,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”
    “Thanks,” Jasmine called, as I went down the stairs.
    Okay, despite giving her money for the wristlet—which was really as much for me as it was for her—I felt like a jerk. I’d come here using the I-have-a-friend excuse because I’d thought Jasmine might have murdered McKenna. While it sounded as if McKenna hadn’t endeared herself to Jasmine—or anyone else—Jasmine didn’t have any reason to kill her. In fact, keeping her alive would have benefited her greatly, because she could have gotten her back-rent out of McKenna from the astronomical first paycheck she was going to receive from the sitcom.
    I walked to my car.
    Now, of course, somehow I was going to have to find Jasmine a roommate. Or maybe I’d just pay half her rent for her. Or maybe I could get